One of our Talking to Strangers interviewers learns a valuable dating lesson the hard way.
It was late. I was desperate. I needed to hand in my Talking to Strangers piece to my editor at Nerve. I'd interviewed people on the Venice Beach boardwalk, just as I'd promised. But as I wrote up the interviews and listened to my tape, I decided something was shady about the last stranger, a drunk frat boy. Remembering his red cup and slanted trucker hat led me to believe that he couldn't have been serious when he said his heart was "ready to open up to that special someone." In retrospect, I was also finding it difficult to believe that parents with the last name "Meoff" would've named their son "Jack."
I didn't want to add him to the lineup and insult the intelligence of Nerve readers, so I did what anyone with a deadline would do. I called my friends. And when they didn't answer, I put myself in my Talking to Strangers piece.
I was determined to make it honest, so I answered all the questions as if a total stranger had found me on the Venice Beach boardwalk and asked me about my sex life. I named myself "Sofia" and opened up about my selective taste in porn and my newly-arrived sex toys. Then I sent the piece through the ether and prayed that my mom wouldn't read about my new vibrator.
My mom did read about my new vibrator. And so did a mysterious reader with a Facebook account. The day my vibrator went public, I got a friend request from a local Venice Beach guy.
"Do I know you?" I asked. In all the time I've had a Facebook account, nobody had ever used it to hit on me. Maybe on Myspace. But never on Facebook. (Let's all switch back to Myspace! You go first.) My friends had gotten creepy messages from randoms who insisted that "your the most butiful girl I ever seen." But I'd never been privy to such a dating underworld. I used my Facebook account to comment on how cute my friends' babies were and to track when ex-boyfriends married.
"I'm so embarrassed," he wrote. "I read your article on Nerve and thought it was funny. That's all. And you look really great too."
"Maybe I'll see you around the hood," I wrote. "And then we'll say, 'Oh, you're that guy/girl from Facebook I don't know.' Can't wait!"
The next day, as I was sitting at a local cafe, wearing sweats and going makeup-free, I saw the mysterious man with the Facebook account. I knew it was him because I had looked at all of his photos the night before. I couldn't believe it.
My mind is that of the average woman. I'm sure there are women who will deny this way of thinking, but I will admit that I believe in signs and that everyone I meet has the potential to be my husband any day now. I'm not even sure if I want to get married. And I'm still on the fence about popping out kids. Yet I tend to believe that because a man wears blue sweaters or likes green, he'd make a great life partner or father. In this case, I was pretty sure the dating universe had landed this man in my path because it meant that he was my perfect future husband.
We made eye contact. I picked a wedding date. He asked me on a first date.
A week later we were on the way to a restaurant up the Pacific Coast Highway. We made flirty jokes and brushed arms. If I were in a commercial for a bad dating site, I would say we had "chemistry." As we sat down to eat, I decided to continue my interviewing. He already knew about my new vibrator, my taste in porn, and my penchant for dating older men. It was only fair that I learn about him through a Nerve-style Talking to Strangers interview. I rolled out the repertoire.
"What do you do for a living?"
"I'm in advertising."
"Does that get you laid?"
He giggled and looked down in embarrassment. I noticed that his flushed cheeks would be a nice addition to our children. (I can't help it. It's a disease.).
"Yes," he finally said. "My job gets me laid."
"How so?"
"I don't know how it happened, but I slept with about four people who worked at my last office."
"Really?"
"Yeah."
"Four? At the same time?" I asked.
"No!"
This was a problem. Future husbands don't dip their quills into four different office inkwells! I imagined him strutting into meetings, the top button of his striped shirt undone, shooting finger guns at four women, knowing he had been inside each and every one.
I didn't want to judge his sexual life, when I'd been all-too-honest in my own interview. That's not fair. But four? In the same office? I'd had an office romance once, but I couldn't imagine four. Did he rotate them in the stairwells?
"I worked there for four years," he said. It was too late. My expression had gone sour. I changed the subject. I twirled my hair. I tried to bring it back, but I couldn't let go of the fact that I was on a date with a guy who'd banged his whole office and then stalked me on social media. Our once-flirty Facebook romance had begun to go the way of Friendster.
As he drove me home past the dark ocean, I realized that whatever his indiscretions, neither this guy nor any other could ever have lived up to the perfect fantasy I'd created. Plus, if he'd caught me back in my heyday, I might have just had sex with four people in the same day. (Not really, Mom. Metaphorically.) No more judging allowed. Nobody will ever be exactly how I hope them to be.
Still, I don't want to know anything about anyone's sexual past on the first date. This is when eye flirts are captivating and mystery is key. I filed it under "lessons," let go of my judgment, and decided to give it another shot. But another shot there wasn't. He dropped me off. No kiss. All the excitement had died in a pile-up of sexual honesty. I didn't hear from him until weeks later when he sexted me a picture of his chest, confirming my suspicion that I'm going to have to find myself a different husband.
While the Center for Disease Control tracks lots of aspects of our daily lives, the clear winner for "most interesting statistics report" is their study of America's sex life, which they obviously research for its relevance to health issues like fertility and sexually transmitted infections and diseases. But those of us with more prurient minds can read it as a peek inside our fellow citizens' bedrooms, and my what an interesting look we're getting with these most recent results. Note: the sample was made up of 13,459 men and women between the ages of fifteen and forty-four, so do not apply this data to those fifty-year olds in your life. You'll look like a complete fool.
A few fun facts we learn:
- Heterosexuals (aged twenty-five to forty-four, at least) are really digging anal sex these days! 36% of women and 44% of men have engaged in the act with an opposite sex partner. As Neil Patrick Harris sang about the Tony Awards, it's not just for gays anymore. (Though, let's be honest, it never really was.)
- Women are twice as likely to have engaged in same-sex sexual activity than men, with 12.5% reporting in the affirmative to men's 5.2%. Interestingly, the percentage went up from 11.2% for women and down from 6.0% for men since the last such survey in 2002.
- As you might suspect from the last figure, slightly more women report exclusively same-sex attraction in this study than in the one from 2002, while slightly fewer men do the same. In fact, the male age group with the highest percent of exclusively same-sex attraction is the oldest, thirty-five to forty-four, which seemingly goes against the whole "kids these days will sleep with anyone!" trend. But, men aged twenty to twenty-four are the least likely to respond as completely heterosexual, so make of that what you will.
There's a good deal more info if you'd like to pore through the report, which is available as a PDF here. And remember, this is all data retrieved during 2006 to 2008. Who knows how many straight people are using the backdoor these days.
Maybe it's because I grew up listening to The Hanson Brothers and not Motown, but this Scientific American study just doesn't speak to me. But I'll still give you ladies who find men with low voices sexy a run down on the reasons behind your animalistic tendencies. It's not exactly news, but now it's a Scientific Finding (aptly called "The Barry White Syndrome"): "Studies have demonstrated a female preference for men with deeper voices as short-term partners... And elsewhere, research finds that North American men with lower-pitched voices report higher numbers for sexual partners in comparison to men with higher-pitched voices." It turns out that although one might assume that a man with a deep voice would be more manly (i.e. be able to hunt and protect better and be bigger and hairier and hunkier) it's not necessarily true in the sexual selection sense. Because — and sorry to the fellas with those dreamboat Clooney voices — according to a December PLoS paper, "men with deeper, attractive voices have lower sperm quality than men with less attractive voices." It's doubtful that most women are actively looking for men with "high sperm quality," but still. Looks like the men with high-pitched voices might have more options than just... me, now that all the ladies know what they're missing out on. You could even cite that article next time a lady ignores you and your cartoony voice at a bar! "Hey babe, according to Scientific American, I may actually have superhuman sperm." (No, maybe don't do that. Just hit me up.)
The scientific community has put a lot of effort into prolonging the average human's life span, but rarely have they given us any real reason as to why. Well, the world may finally know! Accordingly to a scientifically crucial new study, women over eighty have totally enviable sex lives.
Per the study's results:
"Although frequency of arousal, lubrication, and orgasm decreased with age, the youngest (<55 years) and oldest (>80 years) women reported a higher frequency of orgasm satisfaction. Emotional closeness during sex was associated with more frequent arousal, lubrication, and orgasm; estrogen therapy was not. Overall, two thirds of sexually active women were moderately or very satisfied with their sex life, as were almost half of sexually inactive women."
Also:
"The youngest women had the highest frequency of orgasm (47.6%); however, 37.5% of the oldest women reported reaching orgasm almost always or always. Lack of difficulty reaching orgasm followed a similar distribution and trend. The highest orgasm satisfaction was reported in both the youngest and oldest women; approximately 42% of women in the youngest age quartile were very satisfied with their ability to reach orgasm, 35.4% in the second quartile, 37.7% in the third quartile, and 41.7% in the oldest quartile."
Get it, all you women over eighty! I have a newfound resolve to take vitamins, actually sleep, and stop spending hours standing in front o the microwave. Please though, let's all do ourselves a favor and skip the cougar jokes on this one.
DNA testing company the Paternity Lab Center has come up with an ingenious (re: horrifying) way to identify unfaithful partners: for a mere $200, the good folks at Infidelity DNA Testing will test a pair of your partner's panties for telltale traces of semen. Although most of the company's clients are men, women can also test their husbands or boyfriends' underwear for traces of vaginal fluids.
According to the company's website, there are two forms of infidelity DNA testing: semen testing using a prostate specific antigen (PSA) test, and testing for female DNA. For the PSA test, the process works by testing whether semen is present in the sample, ensuring its viability for DNA extraction, and doing a final comparison to confirm the DNA belongs to the right person. The site also suggests that you use the service to find out if your son or daughter is having sex, although that should probably be the least of your concerns if you're batshit enough to go diving into your kids' laundry baskets for a pair of used underwear.
Although some might cringe at the sleaziness of the company's methods, the service touts itself as providing "indisputable evidence" of partners' infidelity (except, you know, if your partner is having sex with a condom, or if he/she/ze is simply not stupid enough to leave their sex-filled sexy-time underwear lying around). As Paternity Lab Center specialist Kip Charles puts it, "There is just no legitimate reason or lie that a wife can come up with for having another man's semen in her panties."
Assuming there's no team of dastardly super-villains out there who get their jollies breaking into women's houses and ejaculating into their underpants, it's kind of tough to argue with that logic. But, then again, if your partner catches you trying to procure a sample, it'll also be pretty tough to come up with an explanation for just what in the name of everloving fuck you're doing with their fucking underwear.
In my mind, God-inspired abstinence is like doing coke in the bathroom at the company Christmas party: I don't think it's wise, but hey, live your dreams. But if you choose to do it, please, please don't put on a wig and starting rapping about it in front of everyone. The result can be an awkward reprimand on Monday morning, potential unemployment, or, in the case of these plucky musical virgins, a video, entitled "Super Grace."
The video comes from Skit Night 2011, an annual talent show at a swanky bar in lower Manhattan (kidding! it was at the University of Florida), and surfaced on the internet this morning. It chronicles the struggles of a young girl in a turquoise wig, who's got something of a crush, but also wants to wait to have sex until God and marriage say it's right. The pre-roll text says "Based on 'Super Bass' and the Bible."
The Bible says lots of stuff, so I won't quibble there, but "Super Bass?" Have you seen that video? "Super Bass" might be about a girl with a crush, but Nicki's pink-leopard-clad ass does things to that motorbike made of ice that indicate a thoroughly carnal set of intentions.
Maybe that's the point -- some sort of virginified re-appropriation. I don't know. I do know it's awkward as hell:
The young lady in the above photo is Sydney Spies. She's a senior at Durango High School in Colorado. And she is the new face of freedom of expression and civil liberties in the United States. Like many free speech activists and victims of censorship before her, Spies is fighting for the right to bear her navel in her high school yearbook, which rejected the above photo on the grounds that it violates the school dress code. She's now taking to the streets with her mother and her classmates to protest the elimination of the photo from her yearbook, arguing that the administration is suppressing her freedom of expression.
The school dress code states that students' clothing should "fully cover the chest, back, abdomen and sides of the student," and as you can see from the photo, the schmatta that Sydney's got on doesn't quite fulfill those requirements (it does, however, make her look a bit like a cross between Courtney Stodden and a Disney princess, with a little Tzeitl from 'Fiddler on the Roof' thrown in for good measure). For her part, Sydney says that she didn't know that her yearbook photo needed to adhere to the dress code, and she is considering suing the school board, with Spies's mother Miki hinting they might even contact the ACLU.
The craziest part of this is, an attorney quoted in the Durango Herald says that Spies' complaints against the school board may be totally valid. Colorado Revised Statutes Section 22-1-120 says that public school students "have the right to exercise freedom of speech and of the press" in student publications, even if they're school-sponsored, although the administration does have the right to trump the law if the material in question is obscene. And, of course, there's nothing obscene about Spies wanting to look fucking ridiculous in her high school yearbook photo; after all, most of us have already done that in our own yearbook photos, without having to get the ACLU involved
